Sherlock Sleeps: Bedtime Stories
by Emma Lynch
Summary: What would happen if Sherlock s racing engine brain became dulled and slow due to lack of sleep? Bad for anyone, but especially bad when Mycroft and his ministers are breathing down your neck. Sherlock needs to get some sleep, or very bad people will walk free. Who can help him switch off? How do you help a thinker to stop thinking? The clock is ticking...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Awake

He was aching from head to toe. Feet, knees, thighs (burning!), spine, and most of all – head. Oh, his head was _killing him_. His brain was in racing engine mode and it was running on – empty. Sherlock was hunched in the corner of the empty room in the dark, empty house. Dust, dirt, cobwebs and a tremendously impressive number of empty takeaway cartons jostled for space next to up-turned crates, plasterboard and, strangely, an odd lady`s sandal…silver and strappy. It was his third night watching the house on the opposite side of the road; waiting for Dr Percy Trevelyan to return. Days had been spent at Baker Street; researching documents and performing analyses on a selection of iPhone covers (_a mobile phone allows for more deductions than almost any other personal item - _ _SH_). Sherlock sank his aching head into his hands and rubbed his temples for some relief; this had been the trickiest of tricky little puzzles. The machinations of his Mind Palace had kept his brain wired and alert for almost seventy-two hours straight. Everyone was furious with him, but he was accustomed to that – it was like swatting away an annoying wasp or bluebottle, dealing with the ill-favour of the masses. No, Sherlock was currently becoming quite concerned for quite another reason – he was starting to lose focus.

John Watson would scoff, enviously, at the way Sherlock Holmes could exist on a veritable _skeleton_ of sleep. When on a case, Sherlock could push through, surviving on nervous energy; mental stimuli and the adrenalin high of an emergent solution. The deductive reasoning, whereby he observed the scene and gradually allocated each tiny detail and minutiae a place and space of its own, was generally enough to feed his brain and generate the power to keep the racing engine running. At the climax of the case – the solution and explanation (_goldfish can be so rewarding to instruct, as Mycroft would often say_) – Sherlock would then fold up, collapse and take to his bed (or couch), where he would slee-eep. Sometimes, for a straight twenty four hours. John had given up lecturing him on this unhealthy and potentially destructive habit; and Molly Hooper didn't even try. She seemed to tolerate Sherlock as a whole. Just the way he was. Which was why he loved her… and her golden high heels… God! He shook himself to alertness. This was serious. Sherlock Holmes was in the midst of a case that had several members of the Cabinet waking up in a cold sweat during the night. The last thing they needed was a consulting detective who couldn't keep his mind on the job in hand.

Glancing for the fiftieth time through the murky, partially boarded up window, Sherlock decides he knows two things:

Dr Trevelyan was not coming home tonight.

Dr Trevelyan was undoubtedly dead.

Three things! THREE!:

Sherlock Holmes needs to get some sleep...

**X0x0x0x00x0x0xx**

Benedict Holmes was wide awake and screaming. Molly Hooper was, subsequently, also wide awake and walking. Again. She was _Dead Woman Walking_. Two and fro, across the star lined baby bedroom of 221A … back and forth… rocking, soothing, singing. The holy trinity of teething infants and exhausted parents, the world over. A dull glow from the phosphorescent stars studded all over Ben`s ceiling dimly lights the tilt of her nose, curve of her upper lip and bags under her eyes. Three nights running Ben, usually the gentlest and most serene of babies, had heard the clock strike ten and morphed into a heaving mess of painful gums and wet, snotty hysteria. Rock, soothe, sing. Three nights running, Benedict`s father had been out, all night, on a case – a missing Doctor with links to the Russian mafia? Molly was usually pretty good at cataloguing Sherlock`s cases, but she is so sleep deprived at this point, she is seriously grateful that her patients are too dead to care about a careless cut or less than perfect bedside manner…

_Hush, little baby, don't say a word.  
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird_

And if that mockingbird won't sing,  
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring…

"Ah, Ben, Ben…it`s really not that bad! Sssh…You`re going to wake Mrs Hudson…She`s neither your housekeeper or your nanny, my friend, so don`t push your luck…"

The screams have become slightly more muted – more a shaky wail, followed by a shuddering sob. Molly cuddles him close and his little baby hands clench and unclench around her arms.

"Little boy…" She kisses the top of his dark, unruly curls. "What a shame…what a shame your daddy isn't here to play you a little tune."

Whether it was down to rapture or shocked surprise, Sherlock`s violin playing nearly always stonewalled any crying. Molly was seriously considering searching under piles of papers in the flat downstairs for the Stradivarius. She had played the recorder at school – how hard was a violin, after all?

Xoxoxoxoxoxoox

Across in Kentish Town:

The clock told the time like a slap in the face:

02:57 am

Jesus.

Mary Watson feels the onset of a face plant into her Gray`s Anatomy.

Yeah, I don`t faint at the sight of blood! Sure, I know one end of a medical history from another! Of course, I have a very excellent set of observational skills – almost up there with the Holmes brothers! So, surely, the next logical step is to train to become a fully-qualified member of the medical fraternity.

There would eventually be TWO Doctor Watson`s – and wouldn't the world be a better place for it? Better to repair than destroy, Morstan – you know it to be true.

But, holy crap – this nocturnal studying may be ok for the twenty-something medical students she jostled with along the wards each day (getting lost looking for the cafeteria and generally trying to avoid killing innocent people); but how many of them had an eighteen month old with night terrors and a husband who often went out on – adventures, of an evening? _Actually, that last thing sounded quite George Michael on Hampstead Heath, so she deleted it_… However – the fact remained that the only time for studying was after Sholto`s bedtime; ergo, Mary`s bedtime was getting later and later. She was exhausted.

03:00 am

Thank you, clock – you constant bringer of bad tidings! Why couldn't you race along this merrily when I was in that tedious anatomy lecture this afternoon? As if it would be difficult for me to transect an artery from the Circle of Willis? The base of the brain is a highly efficient kill spot…oh, how appropriate! Mary rubs her face, wearily…reflecting on methods of assassination when studying to be a life-saving member of society.

A creak in the hall shocks her into alertness and adrenalin surge when she realises it`s just her husband, returning from HIS second job…

John Watson enters the room and shoots his weary wife a looks of sincere sympathy.

"Turn it off and let`s go to bed." Her hands are already saving and powering down. The Circle can wait. She needs to curl up next to her husband and dream of being – a florist.

"Did you catch the Doctor?" Mary yawns, virtually sleepwalking up the stairs. John is close behind. His adrenalin levels are more or less back to normal.

"Sherlock called time on it tonight. When I got back with the coffee, he went into some kind of meltdown…"

"Sherlock? Does he do that now? I thought the thrill of the chase kept him going?"

John shakes his head. Concerned face.

"He thought he could see a dog in the corner of the empty house – a red setter; and a few other animals too…I think he just needs to sleep. He hasn't been to bed for nearly three days."

"Well, I think that is a simply marvellous idea – let`s all take the advice of Sherlock Holmes – and get some sleep!" And she races up the remaining stairs ahead of him.

X0x0x0x0x00x0x


	2. Sleeping Solutions

Twelve hours later:

Martha Hudson stirs the concoction rapidly; both clockwise and anti-clockwise, then finishes by tapping the spoon (three times) on the rim of the cup. Molly watches in fascination.

"Oh, I know – but there is a method, dear. If I do it this way, I know it`s going to work. Just a bit of superstition…or OCD, as Sherlock likes to call it."

Staggering home from the Trevelyan case, Sherlock had felt quite sure he would fold and sleep. The solution was within his grasp. He was only waiting for the results on one more culture. This, however, was not the case. His brain had rudely refused to co-operate with his depleted and exhausted body and, hours later, he was still lying, wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

Not remotely good.

Ben and Molly had managed a good nine hours after he had sobbed himself into a baby semi-coma and she had slept where she lay; next to his cot. Surprisingly comfortable, considering. And, thank God, her woolly head had cleared.

However, seeing Sherlock`s red-rimmed eyes, white face and limp body stretched across the sofa, like a fallen Prometheus banished from Olympus, had jolted her into rescue-mode. Mrs Hudson and her herbal soother was the first port of call.

"I couldn't begin to tell you what was in it, Molly, dear – " Couldn`t or _wouldn`t_? Molly smiled to herself. The landlady knew both of her tenants were more than able to cope with a chemical analysis of a mystery liquid; but perhaps ignorance was for the best in this case. "All I know is, it works for me. During some of the more difficult times, with the late Mr Hudson, it was the only thing to help me unwind at night." She places the beverage on a tray and hands it to Molly. "It`s going to be a struggle to get it down him, dear; but you have to persevere. In one go – or the potency is lost."

Carrying it upstairs, Molly only just begins to wonder if Mrs Hudson is clear whether it is Sherlock or his son who will be drinking the remedy.

**X0x0x0x0x0x00x00x**

"Sex," proclaims Mary Watson, from the doorway. Four pairs of eyes widen and turn in her direction. She smiles. A word always guaranteed to get someone`s attention in a hurry.

Greg Lestrade has a faint blush hovering across his cheekbones. "Wha-a-at, now…?"

John is grinning as he exchanges a private eye-meet with his wife. "Please elaborate, Mary – since this probably has very little to do with the Trevelyan case which we were just this moment discussing."

Mary enters the sitting room at 221B with a tray of tea for the officers. Dr Trevelyan`s body has been found – in several wheelie bins in spitting distance of the Russian Embassy. Definitely, a message there, somewhere. Sherlock`s case notes and lab results were going to be of the utmost importance in the coming trial. International reputations depended upon it. Mycroft Holmes was metaphorically hovering in the background like some impatient overseer on the plantation – urging his slaves onwards. But Sherlock was unable to be of much use because Sherlock still couldn't sleep.

"Yeah – part of my course. The endorphins and oxytocin produced after a good roll in the hay fells `em like a lumberjack with a redwood…no man can stay awake for more than four minutes after sex. It`s a fact." She puts the tray betwixt Molly, John, Lestrade and Sally Donovan and smiles, benignly. The men do look slightly flustered; the ladies are contemplating the redwood analogy.

"So…" interjects John, after a minute or two of tea pouring, milk adding and stirring. "Who`s going up there to tell him?" And Molly has to hide her face in her hands.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

John knocks and enters very gently, not wanting to wake Sherlock in case he was sleeping.

Not a chance.

He lies across his bed; legs tangled around a white sheet and a pillow across his face; held in place by two, crossed pale arms. There is a palpable level of frustration and tension in the room. John sits on the bed and tugs gently at the pillow. Sherlock lets it be pulled from his face.

"Bloody hell Sherlock – you look like crap." To the point – _yes_. Sensitive – _perhaps not_.

Sherlock`s skin is so pale, it almost glows, like Ben`s stars, in the semi-darkness of the room. Black circles lie beneath his bloodshot eyes, which are half-closed. His hair is pushed in all directions; partly stuck to his head and partly punk rock meets Shirley Temple.

"Lestrade is back with his wife." Sherlock`s voice was cracked and raspy. John raised his brows in surprise – didn't see that one coming.

"Yes he is; and how do you know – from up here?"

Sherlock throws the pillow petulantly across the room, like it`s his worst enemy, and turns over, pulling part of the sheet over his shoulder. There is a lot of sighing.

"Amazingly conductive of sound, these old floorboards. Lestrade`s voice has been registering a much increased number of high inflections – he is exclaiming and commenting in the way of an excited sixteen year old on his first date. Annoyingly perky. He has sounded so flat and morose over the last four months; the contrast is unmistakable. No doubt – she`s back." He huffed again and turned the opposite way, facing John. "It won`t last though. She`s keeping quiet about the photocopying engineer in the office until he`s told his wife…"

"Sherlock – " John has to call a halt to the rambling. It`s like Sherlock, but on 33 rpm rather than 45. He is slow and laborious; struggling.

" – did Mrs Hudson`s drink do anything?" Sherlock gives up lying down and struggles to a sitting position. Hmm…not a fan of pyjamas then.

"It turned my pee green," he reports, speculatively, slumped against the pillows, "but it couldn't turn my brain off. Nothing can. John – this is serious. Until I can think clearly, this case can`t be completed…bad people will go free. Very bad people."

He closes his eyes, only to open them a second later and stare straight ahead – zombie like.

"We`ve been talking Sherlock – plenty of doctors and trainee doctors around for useful advice."

Sherlock raises a weary eyebrow, glancing at his friend.

"I sincerely hope you didn't come up here to deliver any of _Mary`s_ advice, John. People will _definitely_ talk."

"God! You heard that too?" John is grinning again. "It`s not all bad though – Donovan suggested the more practical solution of hitting you over the head with a wet sock of sand – says it`s most effective. In fact, she was offering to help you with it…"

Sherlock groans.

"Lestrade suggests – and I quote, `four pints of Old Peculiar and you`ll sleep like a baby`."

"In the way that I`ll wake up in a sea of my own vomit – thank you John, but these remedies seem to be affording you all more amusement than they are a help to me. Is there nothing – useful – anyone can offer?"

Sherlock Holmes rarely, if ever, asks for help, so John is quite touched. He cuts to the chase.

"Two solutions left." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an iPod and headphones. "Mycroft is extremely concerned about – "

" – the case."

" – you."

A pause.

"So he sent a meditation mp3 file for you to listen to. Some people imagine a calm scene to help them wind down at the end of the day. There are no rules about what you should imagine, so long as it's calming. Although clouds, the ocean, and mountains are common choices, you can focus on something as general or as specific as you want. Go on – you are desperate, Sherlock. Try it now."

Sherlock sulkily takes the iPod, inserts one of the headphones and turns it on, closing his eyes. John can hear the faint swoosh of sea over shingle coming through the other earpiece, and pushes into Sherlock`s other ear. Sherlock is so still for the next two minutes, John wonders if – _oh shit!_ His eyes flash open, and Sherlock rips out the offending earphones, casting the player the same way as the pillow.

"No good? You hardly gave it a chance though! Did you visualise a happy, calm scene?"

"All I can visualise is a murder scene – and how to solve it," grumbles Sherlock. "And that _wooshing _sound was most distracting."

John sighs. He is wondering if there is any wet sand in the immediate vicinity. Last resort time. John reaches into his pocket for the packet of sleeping pills.


	3. Story Time

"How can anyone be allergic to Clomethiazole? It`s one of the most widely used sleeping tablets around!" John Watson feels they are thwarted at every turn.

Molly shrugs. "He`s Sherlock – he would have to be – the exception to the rule. Don`t worry John, the rash is fading already; and the nausea is completely gone."

John is wracked with guilt. As if his poor, tired friend hasn`t suffered enough. Molly, angel that she is, touches his arm. "You couldn't know."

The Scotland Yarders had gone over an hour ago (soon after the vomiting had started, in fact) and John, receiver of increasingly impatient and irate texts from Mycroft, knew things were – _a bit not good_. The window of opportunity in the Trevelyan case was growing smaller; a news conference needed to be called and Sherlock Holmes needed to be at that news conference – alert; awake and deducing on all cylinders.

"Maybe we should try another type of sleeping pill – "

Molly Hooper shakes her head, slowly. She has on her thinking face. She is thinking of Sherlock`s own methods when confronting a problem; when everything else has been explored, whatever remains, however odd, must be the true option…

She looks up at John and smiles brightly. "There is something else, John. Something we haven't tried yet … "

The other doctor looks up, expectantly. Straws are being grasped…

"… I`m going to tell him a bedtime story." She announces.

X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x

Sherlock`s bedroom…

The lights are dim; the room is warm and cosy, but not overly hot. Lavender oil burns on Molly`s pottery burner and Sherlock is too exhausted to be rude about `old lady`s powder puffs`. There is no noise, bar muffled traffic noise from the street below and the occasional barking dog. Calmness reigns where once was chaos. It could be called _The Hooper Effect._

Molly sits on the right of Sherlock`s double bed, with her back leaning on a pillow pushed up against the wooden headboard. Sherlock himself lies at a right-angle to her, with his head resting on her cushioned lap. One hand is by his side and the other curls across his chest. His bare feet dangle over the other side of the bed. Sherlock`s eyes are closed and he is breathing steadily, but he is not asleep; he is listening…he is listening because Molly Hooper is telling him a story.

"Once upon a nearly two years ago, when I was pregnant with Ben and presenting my Paper in Scandinavia, I had the chance to assist on a two month study at the Uppsala Universitet – founded in 1477 and the oldest University in Sweden…"

"This much I know," whispers Sherlock.

Stroking his hair, "this much you know. Nine faculties and twenty four thousand full time students. Amazing place – as you know already. This day, I was working in the lab, looking at some post-mortem oesophageal tract injuries on some students who`d been brought into the morgue…"

"Murder?" Sherlock opens one eye. Molly sweeps her hand across his face to close it back.

"Student party game gone very wrong. However, that was not the problem…as I sat with my scalpel, a body was brought in. A young man who had been found, starved and wasted away in a very remote part of the uninhabited and vast Sarek National Park…"

"In Swedish Lapland."

"Yes… and Sherlock – don't interrupt again, or this is not going to work." A sniff from him and she continues. "His papers showed his name had been Gustav Edmundssen and he was a twenty nine year old survivalist, with years of experience of living in the most remote and ignored parts of the world. He had entered the park in April, a strapping six foot, fourteen stone powerhouse, and been airlifted out in August, a corpse, weighing less than six stone. The circumstances were puzzling to me. He appeared to have died from starvation – but his camp had been stocked with food – berries; sweet potatoes; even honey – and a river full of salmon ran less than five minutes walk from his camp. He had no sign of injury that could have rendered him unable to forage for food and allow him to starve. Something else must have been ingested."

Sherlock whispers a word.

"An toxic alkaloid was our first port of call; particularly when we read his journal. The last entry, dated July 15th said:

`_Extremely weak. Fault of potato seed. Much trouble just to stand up. Starving. Great jeopardy_.`" She pauses, then continues.

"Much to the relief of the National Park Tourist Board, the autopsy showed that no toxic alkaloids exist in potato seeds. They didn't kill him…"

Sherlock Holmes flashes open his aquamarine, almond shaped eyes and a delighted Molly can see – the focus is back. She squeezes his shoulder. "Any thoughts?"

"A few…" His eyes close again. "A moment, Molly. I need to go to my Mind Palace – in particular, the file marked `neurotoxins`…"

It is almost twenty minutes later when a semi-conscious Molly is roused from near sleep by an insistent voice in her ear. Sherlock is kneeling up next to her on the bed, wrapped in his bed sheet and looking – alert and awake.

"Molly – wake up, do! Tell me, have you heard of a medical journalist by the name of Dr James Ronaldson? He wrote for The Lancet in the 1990`s."

"Wha –aa … no, I can`t say I do." Sherlock gets up from the bed, still in the sheet, and paces around to the other side of the bed, to look out of the window. He then paces back and sits on the bed, facing Molly.

"Well_ I_ do," says Sherlock Holmes, eyes glimmering in the half light of the evening street lamps.

In 1992, Dr James Ronaldson had published his paper warning about the neurotoxin that could be found in the _Hedysarum alpinium_ seeds, found commonly in alpine potatoes. The same potato seeds that had been found in the stomach of Gustav Edmundssen. The neurotoxin wasn't deadly in itself and hadn`t shown up in normal autopsy protocol. The neurotoxin was called ODAP.

Sherlock was looking at her expectantly. Clearly that should ring some kind of pathologist`s bell. Except it didn`t.

"Not fatal in itself, Molly, but think – what could cause a fit, healthy, capable man to stop feeding himself, when his provisions were close by?"

"I – "

"But, when is _close by_ not quite good enough? When is _close by_ still unable to save you from starving…?" His eyes were shining; all trace of fatigue a distant memory.

Ah.

"When you can`t reach them…you can`t reach them, because…"

His expression is willing her on.

"Because you can`t … move. Oh, God – I remember! ODAP. It has been linked to Lathyrism disease!"

"That`s it, Molly! I didn't know its name – but that`s it! It causes paralysis and lack of strength; people are unable to move their lower limbs. His food was metres away, but he couldn't reach it…my god, it`s like something out of Greek mythology."

_Lathyrism _is a terrible disease which involves the _corticospinal tract_ which directs impulses from the brain to the spinal cord, and produces symptoms similar to UMN, _upper motor neurone disease_. The potato seeds would have, in effect, rendered Gustav a cripple who couldn't make it far enough to his precious food stores. A terrible end.

"Bet you Lestrade`s retirement fund that the tourist board kept Dr Ronaldson`s paper below the radar. I only caught a glimpse of it through _Haystack_, and then it disappeared soon afterwards. These survivalists pay quite a lot to go and get lost in the park. They wouldn't want anyone thinking the local flora had killed one of their customers. _Hedysarum alpinium_ wasn't mentioned on their list of poisonous plants. Looks like Mr Edmundssen`s family might find themselves compensated with a discreet civil action…" He suddenly yawns and slumps onto the bed beside Molly. All nervous energy and enthusiasm disappeared as suddenly as it arrived.

Molly takes action.

She rolls Sherlock onto his side and lies down on the bed opposite him…nose to nose.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I am going to email Johann at Uppsala tonight and let him know your thoughts on Mr Edmundssen. The case has been hanging around there for quite a while."

"You had thoughts…" murmured Sherlock. His eyes were very definitely closed.

"And you had the solution. I knew you would have the solution. Thank you, Sherlock."

"Thank _you_, my Molly."

And the rest was silence.

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxox**

**The story of the Starving Hiker was based on the true story which happened in Alaska around twenty years ago. It was subsequently made into a book and a film - "Into the Wild."**


	4. Once Upon a Dream

The court steps were buzzing with reporters and news teams. Everyone let Donovan lead the way through. "Sharpest elbows," whispers Lestrade.

Sherlock had slept for nearly twenty hours and, upon waking, like _Aurora_ in the _Sleeping Beauty_, had solved everyone`s problems. His (and John Watson`s) observations from the empty house; combined with the chemical analyses and witness corroborations (Wiggins and Shinwell Johnson had done Sherlock proud) had given the murderers of Dr Percy Trevelyan some sleepless nights, and resulted in several members of the Russian insurgent group losing their freedom for approximately fifteen years a-piece. The mastermind of the operation was still out of the grasp of UK intelligence, but Sherlock had warned MI6 (and Mycroft) that the long game was the game they were playing. He was, after all, the only one who had met Bartholomew Moriarty…and he could wait.

John and Molly sat in the Watson kitchen in Kentish town and sucked up their noodles. Both had a chicken and mushroom obsession and neither was prepared to admit it to their nearest and dearest. Although nothing can come close to the locked in love he feels for his wife; John Watson has a surging affection for Dr Molly Hooper and the influence she has on his best friend. It is both spectacular and phenomenal. He is awestruck amongst the pot noodles.

"How, Molly, did you succeed where we all failed? I had Mycroft on MP3, drugs and meditation. Mary had sex."

Molly sucked savagely and a noodle lashed her cheek with chicken and mushroom stock; tinted with soya sauce. She loves John, but feels unable to explain her relationship with his best friend. She tries her best.

"Ah, John…" noodle suck. "I knew how he couldn't switch off."

"Yeah. I didn't know you had a way of short circuiting the Mind Palace, though…" Wouldn't _that _be useful?

Molly puts the empty pot noodle container on the kitchen counter and checks her watch. Playgroup turnaround in less than twenty minutes.

"John. You know him better than I do. I just gave him a puzzle to solve. I`d had it in my head since I was in Sweden, and the authorities have been really grateful since I emailed them last week…

"You gave him a case to solve?"

"I gave it to him to focus his brain…I half guessed he`d have an idea. Turns out, I was right."

"He solved it, so then, he could switch off."

"Yes. Most people like a bedtime story with a beginning, a middle and an end. Sherlock is no exception. When he closed the case of Mr Edmundssen, the starving hiker, he could switch off and sleep."

John puts his carton next to hers on the bench. He will destroy the evidence later, before Mary comes home. No-one needs ever know about his and Molly`s secret shame.

"You`ve saved a lot of lives by doing this, Molly, whether you know it or not."

She is smiling as she picks up her shoulder bag on the way out of the door.

"That is amazing, John, truly," says she. "But, this time, I really only wanted to save Sherlock`s sanity."

John looks at her, thoughtfully. "You just keep on saving him."

Molly turns on the step.

"He saved me first." She smiles.

**X0x0x00x0x0x**

Nursery gates. Mary Watson walking alongside Molly Hooper. Children are in buggies, and a burning question remains…

"Molly."

Ah, she knows. She`s known since last Tuesday.

"Mary."

Ah, she knows. She`s been waiting since last Tuesday.

"Sherlock…he got to sleep in the end. It was down to you, wasn't it?"

"It might have been." Pushing that buggy is such a focus right now.

Mary took a spurt on to catch up with her. Of course she catches up with her.

"And so…" Mary is almost out of breath. _God, she must be on fast track…_

"It _was _the sex wasn't it? It always is."

Buggies are temporarily pulled up short. Molly has to focus. Just how embarrassing is that question? Just how geeky is the answer?

Molly Hooper restarts pushing her son in his buggy and Mary Watson is forced to follow.

"Oh, yes." Replies Molly Hooper, untruthfully and blatantly. She attempts to look wanton as she pushes Benedict back to Baker Street. "It was the sex. I slayed him. He didn't stand a chance."

Mary smiles, satisfied.

"Knew it…don`t worry. John will never know."

And, perhaps, that is just as well.

**THE END**

**(`night, `night. X)**


End file.
